Of Distractions and the Single-Minded Man
by ericajanebarry
Summary: Under a deadline, Richard is distracted. Isobel only wants to help. A misunderstanding ensues ... can it be resolved? A birthday fic for my sweet friend EllieRoberts.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Part I of a birthday fic for EllieRoberts. I've never quite written anything like this before! I was aiming for fluffy cuteness and this happened instead, but I don't believe the birthday girl will mind. ;)**

 **In two parts because I've already made her wait long enough and I owe her at least a piece of cake at this point. I considered all the elements: her status as a stressed-out uni student always under a looming deadline, her ability to write conflict between our babies in a believable way, our differing styles (hopefully I've landed somewhere between hers and mine) ... and a request of hers that will be fulfilled in Part II. Wink, wink.**

 **As always, thank you to all of you who faithfully support my writing. I hear that reviews are back up, so if you leave me one I promise to respond forthwith!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

 _Say, my love, I came to you with best intentions  
You lay down and give to me just what I'm seeking  
Say love, you drive me to distraction  
-Dave Matthews Band - "Two Step"_

 **oOo**

Richard Clarkson was in a quandary. While he was no longer employed by Downton Cottage Hospital, it wasn't as if retirement meant no continued involvement for him in the field of medicine. In fact, he was currently operating under a deadline, attempting to complete a journal article on pulmonary tuberculosis in the elderly by the submission date. He had compiled decades' worth of research to support his argument - that the symptoms of tuberculosis in older individuals often manifested in mild and commonplace discomforts when compared to the acute onset of the disease in younger populations, thereby making the elderly unrecognized carriers of infection. His difficulty finishing the piece was not due to a lack of credible information or to the weakness of his argument. No, indeed, his was a problem of focus; more specifically, the lack thereof.

It had begun that morning. He'd awoken before his wife, late enough that the sun was up but still early enough that she wouldn't stir for at least another hour. He'd crept quietly downstairs to make a small pot of coffee - not much; he'd make it fresh again for her later, as she abhorred the taste of it after it had sat on the burner. He'd fetched his notepad and some reference material from his desk before returning to bed to read and jot down any pertinent thoughts.

It had all gone quite well for some time. The bed was delightfully warm, the coffee hot and strengthy, the research providing pivotal support to a critical point in his argument. He'd made satisfying progress and could easily see himself walking the article to the post before the day was through.

That was until she turned over. She had been sleeping with her back toward him, but as it neared 8 o'clock she began to rouse and rolled onto her back with her left arm outstretched. It was as if she needed the security of some part of her body touching him, because when the back of her hand came into contact with his chest a contented sigh emitted from her lips.

The cool metal of her wedding ring brushed against his nipple, sending a jolt of electricity straight to the base of his spine. He put down his papers and turned to look at her and his breath caught at the vision she presented. Her long, golden-brown hair was fanned out in wild waves across her pillow, her dark lashes impossibly long against her cheeks. The white cotton nightdress she wore stood out in sharp contrast against the warm olive of her skin. Her lips betrayed the barest hint of a smile and suddenly all he could think of was taking her into his arms and kissing her beautiful mouth, ridding her of the nightdress and feeling every inch of her warm skin pressed against his.

 _This will not do_ , he chided himself. Yes, Isobel was lovely and yes, he would indulge those baser urges, _but not until the article is off to the editorial department._ But no sooner had he cemented his resolve than she awakened, arching her back off the bed in a manner that presented the tops of her breasts to him as she stretched. Then she opened her dark eyes, blinking sleepily at him and smiling in earnest.

"Good morning, sweetheart," she said, her voice husky.

She looked so pure, so warm and sweet and inviting, that he could not resist touching her.

"Good morning, beauty," he replied, gathering her against his chest. She kissed him right over his heart and he knew he was a man in trouble. "Did you sleep well?"

"I did, rather," she said brightly, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. _Oh! Doesn't she know what that look does to me?_ he thought. "And you?" she asked. "Have you been up long?"

"Hour or so," he replied, fingering the shoulder strap of her nightdress. _Oh, how easy it would be to slip it off, to roll her beneath him, to—_ "Did some work on the article … you know."

"Ah, yes!" She was genuinely enthusiastic about the assignment and it made his heart soar. "How is it coming along? You _are_ going to let me read it before you send it off, I hope."

"If you wish," he demurred, still unaccustomed to having attention called to himself. "It's progressing well enough. I'd hoped to post it by the close of business today, but that's looking like less of a reality now." It came across in an aggravated manner and she frowned slightly.

"Whatever do you mean by that? We've nothing on today, Richard. Is it something I can help you with?"

 _Oh, heavens, no! The last thing I need is her so close all day, looking delectable and smelling sweet and—_ To her he said, "No, my love. Are you ready for coffee? I'll go fix it."

"Well, let me come down with you. I'll make breakfast. I've no grand plans myself for the day - Cora has George and Sybbie with her so I thought I would read, perhaps catch up on some correspondence. I'd love to help you in any way I can, you know."

At this he had to smile. That was his Isobel, so intent on being useful, on lessening the burden for others. What she didn't know, however - what she couldn't possibly guess, was that far from easing the burden of finishing his article, her presence was driving him to distraction.

"Oh, no, lovely, I'll be all right. I'm afraid I'll just need to seclude myself until I finish, that's all."

She was a bit put out by that remark, but she was nothing if not forgiving, overlooking the shortcomings of others almost to a fault in her zeal to see the good in all people. She bit back the retort that had been on the tip of her tongue and smiled at him as she retrieved eggs from the refrigerator. "Have you brought in the milk yet?" she asked him.

"No, it hadn't arrived when I came down earlier. I'll fetch it now if you like."

"Oh, no, no. You carry on with what you're doing. I'll just step out the door and get it." As she turned her back on him to walk toward the front door he was mesmerized by the sway of her hips, the shapeliness of her calves visible below the knee-length hem of her summer nightdress. He watched as she bent to pick up the milk bottle, admiring the curve of her bottom and imagining it filling his palms. When she turned toward him once more, the way she was backlit by the light streaming in through the glass in the door gave him a delightful view of the contours of her breasts beneath the thin cotton.

"Oh, heaven help us—" he muttered. This would not do _at all_. Never mind finishing the article, at this rate he was never even going to get the coffee made!

She looked at him quizzically. "Sorry, my darling, did you say something?" she asked, beginning to crack eggs into a mixing bowl.

He felt his cheeks flush and tossed off a quick, "Oh, you know, a watched pot. Or kettle, in this case."

"Oh, yes," she agreed with an accommodating smile. He returned to his task and she to hers and all was well until she began to twist her hair up out of the way, exposing the back of her neck to him.

If he stepped up behind her now, if he kissed her just there where her neck and shoulder met she would gasp in delight and tilt her head, granting him better access. He would grasp her hips and pull her back against him and—

 _No! Infectious disease, you damned fool man, remember?_ "Ah, Isobel, the coffee is ready. Would you mind bringing breakfast to me in my study?"

She spun around, regarding him curiously. As if the request itself weren't strange enough - they _always_ took meals together - absent from it was his characteristic inclusion of an endearment of some sort: _sweet girl, beautiful, my love._

"Richard, you really are in a right state over this article, aren't you?" she remarked, shaking her head.

"Hmm?" he replied, trying not to look in her direction, then, "Oh. Well, yes. Yes, I suppose I am."

"But _why,_ darling? It's hardly the first you've written."

"No," he agreed, thinking quickly. "But it's the first since I've retired and I don't want to come across as if I'm past it." He prayed she'd be satisfied with that explanation. He should have known better. This was Isobel, after all, she of the unfailing determination to _always_ have the last word.

"Not possible," she said. "Your research skills are unparalleled. And you're an eloquent writer. You'll do wonderfully." At this she stepped close, wrapping her arms around his waist. She swayed them both gently and smiled beautifully up at him and she was warm and sweet and—

And he had to get away from her. Immediately. Or he'd be in serious trouble.

"Thank you," he said. "I'm afraid I won't feel better about it until it's complete and out of my hands. So you see, it's best if I finish as quickly as I can. Surely you understand."

She took a half step back from him, frowning slightly. Once again there was missing any endearment from his statement. In fact, it lacked any manner of warmth whatsoever.

"Quite," she responded flatly. "You go. I'll bring breakfast along presently." And she did. Without fanfare, without a word, without so much as a glance at him, she deposited the plate on his desk and turned to leave. _Surely he won't let me walk out the door without at least acknowledging I was here_ , she thought. But he did exactly that.

She spent the morning at her desk in their bedroom, returning correspondence from her nieces and nephews in Manchester and trying her best not to think about her husband's peculiar behavior. She had little success. He had been so distant, his behavior so out-of-sorts and she found she didn't like the turn her thoughts were taking. She was not the sort of woman who allowed her worth to be determined by the off-color comments and inconsiderate actions of others toward her, nor did she need praise or platitudes from anyone else in order to feel she had value.

Except that her strength and her natural self-assuredness did nothing to render her impervious to the comments and actions, the praise and platitudes of _one man_. She hated herself for it at times, but so strong was her love for Richard Clarkson that she did, in fact, look at herself through the lens with which he perceived her. It was this ugly truth that, by luncheon, had her blinking back hot, angry tears as she wondered whether he'd grown tired of her. While it was true that he'd granted her a moment in his arms upon her awakening that morning, he had otherwise kept her quite literally at arm's length, and he'd never behaved that way toward her before. Even in the aftermath of their most heated arguments, he had always been very tactile in demonstrating his affection for her, and she'd come to crave his touch, to absolutely _need_ it.

She ventured downstairs and hesitated outside the half-open door to his study. She wanted so badly to see how he was getting on, but all day so far it had seemed as if her presence did nothing but irk him.

She went into the kitchen instead and prepared chicken sandwiches for them both along with fresh cherries from the cherry tree out front. She was normally averse to food in the bedroom, but she made for the upstairs with her plate, calling to him as she passed by the study, "Richard, there's a plate for you on the counter." She did not wait for a response, and it was just as well for none was forthcoming.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I've been so very pleasantly surprised by the reaction to this piece! You, my audience, are remarkable individuals and I am so grateful for your support!**

 **Alas, what had its origins as a fluffy little one-shot swiftly became a two-parter, and now I've found a perfect natural break and an inroads for a cliffhanger, the sort of thing my friend EllieRoberts (for whom this fic is being written) is both fond of and skilled at writing. Who'd have thought this would become a miniseries? Certainly not I, but I'm having a delightfully good time watching it grow.**

 **So I am going to be a dreadful tease and break it _before_ the big finish I alluded to yesterday. It just ... _works_ so very nicely this way. See, Ell, I've been taking notes!**

 **Thanks ever so much for the lovely reviews and do let me know your thoughts on this update if you have a chance!**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

Late in the afternoon Richard pushed his chair back from the desk and let go a sigh of relief. The article was finished, the administrative work complete, and all that was left was to walk it to the post office. Perhaps he would ask Isobel to accompany him. He had, after all, made himself scarce all day and he missed her. He rolled his eyes at that. _How can I miss her when we live in the same house?_ He was _not,_ as she liked to tease him, _growing soft in his old age._

He made his way to the kitchen with his breakfast and luncheon dishes, but there was no sign of Isobel. He checked the sitting room, but it was to no avail and besides, had she been there she'd have been sat at the piano. Perhaps she'd gone out for a walk, though it was unlike her to do so without giving him the courtesy of letting him know she was leaving.

He wasn't about to go without at the very least penning a note to let her know. He ventured upstairs to borrow some of her stationery and was arrested in his tracks in the doorway to their bedroom. Isobel lay sleeping on top of the bed in the lavender blouse and dark blue skirt he loved best on her, her stockinged feet crossed at the ankles. A volume of Keats lay open across her chest. He smiled at that - she was forever reading herself to sleep. What caught his attention - _and cut to the heart_ \- were the tracks of tears he could see on her cheeks. While she'd always been given to bold outbursts of emotion, she was not much of a crier, and so he was instantly on alert. Whatever could have provoked her to tears?

Picking up her book and setting it aside, he lay down next to her on the bed. He took in the image of her beautiful face. That was precisely how he thought of her. Isobel's was not simply a face; it was a _beautiful face._ She had not merely eyes, but _wide, dark, soulful eyes._ She was altogether captivating, and there were still moments he couldn't believe he had the good fortune to love her and to be on the receiving end of her love, passion and devotion.

He reached out to trace the paths of the teardrops that had dried on her cheeks and she sighed at his touch, but it wasn't the breathy, contented sigh of this morning. This was ragged, more like a sob, and he felt as if a fist closed around his heart when he heard it. "Isobel," he whispered. "Isobel, sweetheart." He smoothed back the hair at her temples.

She blinked at him, her eyes unfocused and red-rimmed. When she registered that he was beside her she sat up swiftly, moving to the edge of the bed and putting her feet on the floor. She made a show of tucking back into place hair that was not the least bit untidy, but it felt akin to securing her armor. Clearing her throat, she addressed him at long last.

"Richard." It was an acknowledgement, nothing less and nothing more.

"Isobel, what's—" he began, but she cut him off with a mirthless laugh.

"Don't even bother, Richard. If you don't know what's wrong, you don't know me at all. Spare us both the trouble and save your breath."

This time it was he who blinked in confusion. "I finished the article. I was about to post it but I know you'd said you wanted to read it first. And then I wanted to ask if you'd walk into the village with me."

"Are you so daft that you can sit there and tell me you've finished the article and expect me to fall all over myself after the way you behaved toward me?" She whirled around to face him with ice in her eyes.

"The way I behaved toward you? Whatever do you mean?" He was utterly incredulous.

She stood to her feet, crossing her arms over her chest as she paced the floor. "Have you no recollection of the things you said to me … the fact that you pushed me away? I overlooked it the first few times, but after that it all became startlingly clear: you've grown tired of me. And I don't know which of us I'm more cross with - you for casting me off like so much old clothing, or myself for being naïve enough to believe in love in the twilight years like some fawning, wide-eyed schoolgirl!" She stormed out of the room and down the stairs.

He followed her, his head spinning. She was by the front door, putting on her shoes and hat. "Isobel, please don't do this. If you would just listen to me—"

"Richard, I cannot have this conversation now. I need to clear my head. Now if we're quite through …" She met his eyes long enough to see him nod and then she walked out the door and down the path leading away from the cottage.

Back inside Richard went into the kitchen, slammed a glass down on the counter and poured himself a finger of whisky, knocking it back swiftly. He considered a second but then thought better of it - he needed to be clear-headed if he was going to sort out the mess he'd got himself into. He sat back in one of the kitchen chairs and folded his arms across his chest as her words replayed in his mind. _Have you no recollection of the things you said to me … the fact that you pushed me away?_

As he began to think back on the day's events, reality suddenly hit him like a ton of bricks. From their first moments together, he had done everything in his power to put distance between himself and her. His reasoning had been noble - _I'll finish the article and then I'll be able to give her my undivided attention, as she deserves._ But he winced now when he thought of her warm, loving overtures, her heartfelt words of affirmation, the help she had offered with such heartfelt sincerity … and his flat, hasty refusal of it all. It was the way he had moved out of her embrace, however, refusing her the kiss she had so clearly been anticipating, that had him wishing for deep water and a millstone to hang around his own neck. She would have had no way of knowing why he'd turned her away, so was it any wonder she thought it was due to a sudden change of heart, that he had grown tired of her? He had to explain himself, to apologize to her and beg forgiveness, to take her into his arms and make it clear that he loved her, was _in love_ with her, had never loved her more. But first she needed to come home.

Tempted as he was to go in search of her, he refrained. His Isobel was far from a damsel in distress and for him to attempt a "rescue" would only serve to upset her more. Instead he went about making her homecoming as pleasant as it could be. He set some beef stew on the stove to warm and sliced the bread she had baked that morning. He put her favorite record on the gramophone - Schubert's _String Quintet in C major_ \- and went upstairs. There he turned down the bed and laid her nightclothes - the white nightdress that had so bewitched him that morning, along with her favorite lavender silk dressing gown - by the bathtub. He would have to wait to run the bath for her until she was home, but he put out her shampoo and her favorite Yardley's soap in preparation thereof before his return trip downstairs.

He had just come in from the garden with a basketful of fresh-cut roses when she returned. To an onlooker the scene would have appeared rather comical as she walked through the front door and he the back at the same moment, each regarding the other awkwardly and neither one certain what to do or who should speak first.

* * *

 ***Incidentally, Schubert's _String Quintet in C major_ is Penelope Wilton's favorite piece of music.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Well, hello again! I hope that all who found this fic a little too hard on the feels up to this point will find solace in this chapter. Suffice it to say that differences will be ... ahem ... _resolved._**

 **Shoutouts to Batwings79 for the GIF and quote that inspired this chapter, Mistressdickens for being my enabler and ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for being my ... smut beta(?).**

 **xx,**

 **~ejb~**

* * *

Previously in Distractions ... _He had just come in from the garden with a basketful of fresh-cut roses when she returned. It was really rather comical as she walked through the front door and he the back at the same moment. Each regarded the other awkwardly, neither one certain what to do or who should speak first._

 **oOo**

Richard decided that, given the circumstances, it must be him. He set the garden basket down and approached her. "May I?" he asked, indicating the hat she held in her hand. She nodded and he took it from her, their fingertips touching lightly. He hung it on the coat tree and she gave a small smile of thanks.

"Isobel, I have been a fool. I know that I've hurt you and I am terribly sorry. I'd very much appreciate the opportunity to make it up to you, but I'll understand if you won't entertain it. Regardless of what you may think at the moment, I love you."

She gave another barely-there smile and blinked several times as if to stave off tears. "Richard, I may have … overreacted. Surprising, I know." At this she smiled in earnest and let go a small chuckle. "Oh, it's alright to laugh, Richard! I know I'm guilty of taking things a bridge too far." He joined her in laughter and reached for her hands. She slipped hers tentatively into his before she continued.

"Your actions today were hurtful. I found myself more affected by them than I ought to be. So you see, while I'm upset with you I am equally disgusted with myself for being so easily swayed."

He frowned at this, but he did not loosen his hold on her hands. "You're the last person alive whom I'd ever put down to being easily swayed. Even when you're wrong, Isobel, you're completely sold to the cause."

She huffed. "Well I was fool enough to believe that one could fall madly in love in the autumn of life and that such passion could be sustained. Clearly I was mistaken."

He smirked at her and her mouth fell open in shock. "Oh, Isobel … sweet Isobel … how wrong you are indeed. But not at all in the way you think."

At this she took a step back from him, putting her hands on her hips. "I'm trying to apologize, Richard. I've already admitted I was wrong to storm off in a tizzy. If we're meant to make peace with each other and move on, I hardly see how continuing to point out my folly helps to achieve that end."

He shook his head incredulously. "Oh, but you _are_ wrong, my beauty. So just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it! From the moment I first laid eyes on you this morning, I knew I would have a dreadfully hard go of getting the article written with you nearby. That's the reason I kept my distance from you all day."

She was fuming now. "And how, pray tell, are you disproving my point by what you're saying? You refused my offers of help. You couldn't trouble yourself to take meals with me. You recoiled from my touch and you've not looked me in the eye since before breakfast. How am I to believe anything except that you've gone off me?" She was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed, and while he felt like a right arse for the hurt he'd inadvertently caused her, he was also mesmerized. Oh, but she was magnificent in her fury! It harkened back to the early days of their association and he remembered the times he would deliberately wind her up just to watch the set of her jaw, the rise and fall of her breasts, the swish of her skirts when she would storm away from him.

"Oh, my darling, have you truly no awareness of the effect you have on me?" He stepped closer but refrained from touching her just yet.

"Precisely what effect do you think I'm having on you?" she sputtered. Enough was enough. He realized just how hurt and angry she was and concluded that her threshold for teasing had been exceeded.

"Isobel," he said gently, "come here, please."

She looked him up and down as if he were mad.

" _Please,"_ he repeated, extending his hand to her. She met his eyes and when he nodded she slipped her hand into his. He pulled her closer, one arm going around her waist to hold her loosely.

"The reason I kept you at a distance all day is precisely because you are so very beautiful. From the moment you woke and looked at me in that way of yours, I wanted you. You were so lovely and soft, so _warm_ , Isobel, and I wanted …" He trailed off, realizing he'd been about to say something most ungentlemanly.

"You wanted what, Richard? What did you want?" she whispered, and while she did not mean for it to sound provocative it did.

He smiled, rubbing his hands along her upper arms. "Oh, my love … you are far from naïve, but there is such an innocence about you where your beauty is concerned. What I _wanted_ , Isobel, was to touch you. To _take_ you." His other arm went around her and he held her closer.

"Whyever didn't you?" she asked, wide-eyed.

"Isobel," he said, his voice full of admiration, "if I had started I wouldn't have been able to stop, sweet girl. You presented quite a distraction, particularly in that white nightdress."

She looked at him curiously, her hands moving to his lapels. " _That_ nightdress? But why? It's only cotton. You know I've many others that are far more revealing."

"I would have to disagree with you there," he said, and met her confused expression with an explanation. "You've others that leave less to the imagination, _and I love them_ , don't get me wrong. But _that_ one … shall I tell you why I'm partial to it?"

"Given all you've put me through, I think you'd better," she replied with a grin. He still had a good bit of explaining to do, but she was beginning to see that it really had been a misunderstanding.

"First things first," he rasped as one hand moved to the back of her neck. He drew her closer and kissed her fiercely and she moaned into his mouth. When his lips left hers he trailed kisses along the line of her jaw, moving toward her ear. "You are delectable in that nightdress, Isobel, because in the proper light I can see _everything,"_ he whispered.

"Truly?" she asked, smiling beautifully at him.

"My love, it was either barricade myself in the study or have a cold bath! All I could think of was to finish as quickly as possible … so that I could be with you."

"Am I to take it that you're speaking in the biblical sense?" She winked at him. They were going to be all right.

"Well, I certainly wasn't implying we play cards!" He smiled and she reached out to trace the shape of it. He kissed her fingers, looking at her with eyes full of sincerity. "In answer to your question, 'My beloved is mine and I am my beloved's.'"

"Oh, darling," she breathed. "Will you … _be with me_ now?"

"Does this mean that I'm forgiven?" he asked. "I'm sorry that I didn't give you the courtesy of an explanation. It never occurred to me that you would think I don't want you. Nothing could be farther from the truth, Isobel."

She smiled at him again. "Forgiven, forgotten, water under the bridge. _Please_ , Richard." She looked up at him from beneath her lashes.

"Oh, beauty, when you look at me like that …" His hands moved to her hips and he pulled her body flush against his.

"Yes? Tell me what it does to you," she crooned.

He rolled his hips into her and she felt the hardness of him against her.

" _That_ is what you do to me, Isobel. _You_ did that. Do you know that there is never a moment when I don't want you?"

She answered him with a corresponding roll of her own hips, grinding softly against him as she grasped his bottom in her hands.

"All day long, I thought about the softness of your skin when I kiss you here …" He pressed his lips to the tender place behind her left ear and her mouth fell open in a soundless gasp. "... And here." He trailed his lips and tongue over the silken skin of her neck and began to work open the buttons at her throat. "... And the feel of your pulse beneath my lips." He continued to kiss her until his mouth, hot and open, rested over her heart. He looked up at her and she nodded, too overcome to speak.

 _It beats for you, my love._ She buried her fingers in his hair and her eyes slipped shut.

He took his time, removing her blouse button by button, kissing each new inch of skin he revealed. The brassiere she wore was little more than a short chemise made of blush-toned lace. He loved it for all it revealed to his eyes, to his touch. "My favorite," he breathed. As he brushed his thumb across her nipple it stiffened and she threw her head back.

"Do you know that from the moment I laid eyes on you this morning, all I could think of was tasting you … here …" he kissed first one nipple through the lace, "and here?" and then the other.

" _God,"_ she breathed, and _"Yes,"_ and _"More,"_ holding the back of his head to her.

He reached behind her to undo the catch of her brassiere and walked them backwards. She gasped in surprise when her bare back came in contact with the cold firmness of the wall behind her, and juxtaposed against the heat of his mouth on her skin it was a study in sensory extremes.

"Oh, Isobel, you are _beautiful._ " The limpid blue of his eyes had darkened to indigo as he admired her, raising his hands to cup her breasts. Her skin flushed at his touch as a new kind of heat began to arise from deep within, and as he took her breast in his mouth again, now unimpeded by the barrier of the lace, sharp darts of pleasure shot straight to her center and she cried out.

"Richard! Oh, _God,_ love!" She flattened her palms against the wall, not certain she could trust herself to remain upright. Spurred on by her response he lingered, sucking hard at her. She became pure sensation, unsure where she ended and he began or whether she still remained an extant being. His mouth left her breasts to rain kisses over the taut plane of her abdomen and she hissed, her muscles twitching beneath his lips. She felt the rush of cool air on her skin as her skirt suddenly pooled at her feet and then his hands were on her, caressing her bottom through the satin and lace of her knickers as he fell to his knees in front of her.

She yelped as he pressed a kiss to her apex, her hips thrusting toward him of their own accord.

He smoothed his hand over her flank to calm her. "Shh … Just feel it, beauty. Let me do this for you." He did not give her time to answer as he parted the center seam of her knickers, finding her thick and damp with desire as he drew his index finger along her folds. He traced slow, lazy circles over her nub, keeping his touch light, watching as her head lolled back, her fists clenching and releasing. He slipped a finger inside and groaned at the slick tightness of her. When he replaced his fingers with his mouth her hands flew to his head, holding him to her. As he penetrated her with his tongue he could feel the pulses that signified her impending release and he moaned against her, into her.

The vibration was all it took and she came with a shout, her body trembling as white lights burst before her eyes. He drank in the taste of her, rich and heavy and tangy-sweet, until her legs gave way and she slid down the wall.

He pulled her body, limp and shaking, into his arms and rocked her, running a hand through her hair.

"Richard, I love you! My darling, my husband, I love you!" she murmured incoherently as tears streamed down her face. She was sobbing and laughing at the same time and he smiled into her hair as he kissed her temples.

"I love you, beautiful girl. Oh, how I love you."

She looked up at him, and despite the fact that he had just rendered her unable to stand she felt a fresh surge of longing coil in her belly when she saw the expression of love, reverence and pure, unadulterated lust in his eyes. She smiled, joy welling up from the depths of her soul. She thought, not for the first time, _When I look in his eyes, I can see that he means every word that falls from his lips._ **_He makes me beautiful._**

"Let me take you to bed," he said huskily. "Let me undress you properly and see you and feel you."

She nodded, blinking at him lazily as she smiled broadly, the picture of satiety. He helped her to her feet and, hand in hand, they ascended the stairs together.

Just inside the doorway she turned to him, so that as the door clicked shut and he stepped toward the bed his arms were at once full of her. She attacked his mouth and he growled as he deepened the kiss, grasping her bottom and lifting her off her feet. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she locked her ankles, her heels digging into the base of his spine as they ground against one another.

"Richard," she gasped, breathless from his kisses, "need you. _Now._ "

He laid her down on the bed, kneeling beside her, and she made short work of the buttons lining the front of his shirt and the fastenings of his trousers. It was her turn to look at him with open admiration as he stripped off his shirt and vest, his shoes and socks, his trousers and shorts.

 _He is_ ** _so_** _beautiful,_ she thought. **_My_** _husband, my love._

"Oh, sweetheart," she murmured, drawing him down to her with a hand at the back of his neck. Her hands roamed his chest and back, his abdomen and hips and buttocks, her touch firm and assured and utterly maddening.

He pushed gently at her shoulders until she lay on her back, parting her legs as he moved between them. His fingertips drew circles on the tender skin of her inner thighs and he watched as she gasped, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her lips. He rolled her stockings down with painstaking deliberation, nipping at the special places behind her knees until her knuckles were white from clutching the coverlet.

At long last he slid his hands under her bum and tugged at her knickers, pulling them off her. As he did so he pressed his lips to her hipbone, sucking hard enough that she knew she would bear his mark later. He traced his tongue across to the other hipbone as she uttered sheer nonsense.

At last they were bare, and she pulled him down on her. The rasp of his chest hair against her nipples made the walls of her sex clench. The tip of him rested at her entrance and she cried out at the sensation, the knowledge of what was coming.

"Shh, my love," he whispered as he rubbed himself along her folds, wet and warm and swollen with wanting him.

"It aches, Richard, it aches!" She sobbed, not sure whether she wanted him to prolong the pleasure-pain of longing or to subdue it.

"Where, Isobel? Tell me." He guided himself so that the very tip of him entered her.

She threw her head back, exposing the column of her throat, and he nipped at her carotid with the sharp edges of his teeth.

"Deep … So deep. I want … I need—"

"Is this better, precious?" He moved forward slowly, letting her feel every inch of him until he was fully sheathed inside her heat.

It was perfect and too much and still not enough, and somehow all those things at once. She had no way of communicating this to him except to wrap her legs around his waist, a guttural cry issuing from her lips. He thrust deeply, pulled out and thrust again, holding her hips to sweeten the angle for her, certain he'd got it right when she keened, her back arching off the bed. The sounds she made were beautifully nonsensical, but among them he heard his name, and God's, and "I love you."

He grasped her hand in his and brought it to the place where they were joined. "Feel this, Isobel," he panted in her ear, and she groaned at the feeling of him sliding in and out of her. She broke again, blind and deaf to everything but him moving within her.

Her fingernails dug into his shoulder blade and he growled as he slammed into her once, twice, three more times and then came, her entire body clenching around him, milking him. He collapsed on top of her, relishing her triumphantly half-whispered, _"Yes. Stay."_

They lay breathless and panting, wrapped together as one, until she reached up to stroke the back of his neck.

"Richard," she whispered tenderly. He lifted his head and looked at her with eyes full of love.

"I've not yet properly apologized for thinking the worst of you," she said softly, tracing his brow with her fingertips. Looking up at him with eyes dark and hooded, she told him, "I'm sorry."

He smiled, kissing her lips. "What was it you said to me? Ah, yes … Water …" _kiss_ "under ..." _a deeper kiss_ "the bridge." He nudged her nose with his and kissed her again before moving to lie beside her.

She turned on her side to face him, insinuating a leg between his as she pressed her palm over his heart. "It's never been like that, Richard. I've never felt so completely loved, inside and out. I was a fool to doubt you."

He traced the tip of one finger up and down the length of her spine. "More fool me for giving you a reason. You're _everything_ , Isobel."

"I know that now, my love," she told him. They held one another in silence, and just as he began to wonder whether she'd drifted off to sleep she sat halfway up. "You never got the article posted, Richard!"

He was touched by her concern and smiled, smoothing his hand over her shoulder in thanks. "Doesn't matter. It'll keep until tomorrow." Seeing the uncertainty on her face he kissed the tip of her nose. "They're shut for the evening anyhow. Lie down, darling. Sleep now. I love you."

"Love you." She tucked her face in against the side of his neck and allowed sleep to claim her.

 **oOo**

They lingered in bed the next morning. Richard cooked breakfast and brought it to Isobel, determined to make up for yesterday's blunder. He had pulled out all the stops, foregoing their everyday dishes in favor of the china and adding in a bouquet made up of the roses he'd cut the previous afternoon. As he stood in the doorway, however, he nearly dropped the tray he was holding when he caught sight of her. She sat against the headboard, bolstered by more pillows than he was aware they owned, wearing the nightdress that had been his undoing and absentmindedly fingering the lace at its yoke as she read his article.

"Dear God, woman!" he exclaimed, rescuing the tray before it clattered to the floor.

She looked up at him, startled by the noise. "Richard?"

At once he was beside her on the bed, having set the tray on top of the dressing table. She giggled as he moaned, pressing kisses to her nearly-bare shoulder.

"Do I distract you, Doctor Clarkson?" she teased, her voice low and throaty.

"Isobel," he rasped against the soft skin of her neck as he slid the strap of her nightdress off her shoulder, "where did you buy this?"

"Heavens, Richard!" She laughed again, then gasped, his ardency taking her by surprise. "It's something I picked up in ... _Oh!"_ This as he cupped her breast. "... York, darling. The article is brilliant, by the way. Exceptionally presented."

"Sod the article," he told her, drawing her against him and slipping the other strap down. "I believe you require a few more of these." He rolled her beneath him and soon all was forgotten - his article, her nightdress, their breakfast.

And late that afternoon, they delivered the article hand-in-hand to the postmaster after stopping into her favorite clothier's.

 **oOo**

 **'Every woman deserves a man who writes poems on her body with his lips. And every man deserves a woman who craves his touch.' – Mardy Bryant**

* * *

 ***"So just stand there in your wrongness and be wrong and get used to it!" is borrowed from President Josiah ("Jed") Bartlet of The West Wing. Mistressdickens and I thought it worked well in the context of this situation.**

 **If you've made it this far, would you kindly leave me a little review? Thanks so much!**


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